


Eye Contact

by TheAuditty



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Freeform, Gen, I'm Sorry, Inspired by another author's work, Nightmares, PTSD, Sequel, Serial Killers, Sorry Not Sorry, The plot bunny hit me and wouldn't let go, Therapy, butchered russian accents, i'm not, lindzzz, no wait, pay attention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuditty/pseuds/TheAuditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an inevitability that all things, no matter how strenuous, become routine in time. Things that once caused pain become background noise, the horrors that once consumed us become passing thoughts. It doesn’t mean anything has gotten any better, life is never so kind. It just means it's easier to fake it.</p>
<p>A sequel to Lindzzz's "Pay Attention"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pay Attention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/893253) by [Lindzzz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindzzz/pseuds/Lindzzz). 



> I chose not to use any archive warnings, but there may be some triggering content in this work. If you have any specific triggers, shoot me a message, I'll let you know if you're in the clear or not.

It wasn't what one would call busy, but activity within the station certainly wasn't quiet either. A steady flow of paperwork shuffling, phones ringing, and the occasional order filled the air, creating a metronome to a depressingly mundane job.

“Collins, we're out of coffee.”

“McCormick, we're getting complaints about a group loitering by the mall, can you and Williams handle it?”

“Reed, how's that report coming along?”

When officer Bennett he had joined the force in his youth, he had been naive. He believed in the glamour presented by televised dramas, that every week he would be out saving a life, bringing a sociopath to justice, making an actual difference. Nearly 20 years later, he knew better. Most days his department handled little more than traffic citations, vandalism charges, and petty crime. It was dull work, but that was the name of suburban life. At least he could rest easy at night, knowing the likelihood of harm reaching his children was low.

Between his train of thought and the incredibly monotonous report he was currently filing, Bennett didn't notice the younger officer approach. 

“Hey, Officer Bennett? Captain sent me over, says he needs to send us out.”

He snapped his head up, silently cursing himself for spacing out. Even in a dull community, he was a police officer, and couldn't afford to lose focus so easily.

“Right, Lark was it? What’s the situation?”

“Condemned apartment on the edge of town, next precinct over. Some calls have come in complaining about a smell in the area. We think there’s another body.”

Bennet sighed, and stood to follow the rookie officer. “Alright, is the coroner on the way?”

“Not yet sir, he’ll arrive after we clear the scene.”

The drive over was a silent one. It had been a cold winter, colder than anyone had expected. Their precinct hadn’t been affected much, save for needing to increase road safety awareness, but the next precinct over hadn’t been so lucky. Unfortunately, a great many homeless had been caught in the worst of it, and had frozen in their sleep. With spring upon them now,decomposition was just catching them, and the bodies only being found now. Their department was already stretched thin, so Captain North of his department had offered to send extra help their way. It wasn’t a problem for any of them, but it was depressing work. There hadn’t been more than a dozen, but each case was the same; someone lost in the world, frozen and alone, without a person in the world to miss them. They didn’t even have names for most of the deceased, just posters asking for family to step forward that went on ignored.

The building in question was set to be demolished a few years back, but thanks to budget cuts, some negligent government employees, and lost paperwork, it had been forgotten. So the three story beige building went mostly unnoticed, save for some graffiti. Still, even those spots were few and far between, and what crude rushed spraypaint there was, was crumbling and covered by overgrown vines. Out of sight and out of mind, a seemingly perfect place to hide away. 

Officer Bennett stepped aside, letting Officer Lark take the lead on this one. She needed the experience, and it was unlikely that anything would be out of place here. Once she kicked down the front door (a completely unnecessary act, it was unlocked, but he said nothing), a faint, sickeningly sweet smell became apparent. It wasn’t a scent he thought he could ever get used to, and he prayed he never would. Flashlights out, they stepped forward, vision obscured somewhat by dust. The sweep would go quickly, it was just a matter of following their noses. Each room was examined as they passed, but each one was empty, save for broken windows and disarray. Still, the scent grew worse as they progressed down the hallway. He coughed into his sleeve once they reached the last door. Lark went to open it, but this door wouldn’t budge. The two shared a look of concern; Bennett had stopped believing that he would uncover any profound crimes or conspiracies in this area a long time ago, but a locked room in an abandoned building was never a good sign. Silently, he motioned for Lark to step back, only to see she had already withdrawn her firearm. 

“Are you sure we should do that? If someone's hiding in there they'll know we're coming.”

“Relax, whatever's down there is too dead to be a threat.”

“We should still have a pl-” BANG- the rest of his statement went unheard as the rookie fired rapidly, breaking the lock and leaving the door ajar. He sighed.

“You do realize we have to file a report report every bullet we discharge, right?”

“Whoops. Hey, is this place supposed to have a basement?”

“What? No, why?” His prior thought abandoned, Bennett peered into the room only to find it wasn't a room at all. Instead, the pair found themselves facing a flight of stairs, far cleaner than the rest of the condemned building, leading to another presumably locked door. The stench of death was far thicker here, and he could only imagine how bad it would be when they finally found the corpse. This was Lark’s first time examining a scene with a body, it was a miracle she hadn’t thrown up yet.

Cautiously, Officer Bennett proceeded down the stair. They creaked slightly, as if they had seen frequent use. Scuff marks graced the baseboards, creating the appearance that someone, maybe many someones, had been dragged down here. The entire scene just wasn’t right. He turned to the rookie, and she nodded. The senior officer tested the doorknob, disappointed but not surprised to find it locked. Bennett finally leveled his weapon, brow wrinkling in frustration.

“I’ll handle the door and you’ll cover. Got it?”

“Roger that.”

His body tensed, as was expected before facing a potential threat. Lark was taut as well, posed behind him, ready to kill should this end poorly. That was the problem with fresh blood, they were all too ready to strike, but at least she was in his corner. Bennett inhaled, forcing his mind to calm. 

BANG. BANG.

The lock dispatched, Bennett slammed into the room, turning to begin a sweep. Lark was immediately behind him, ready to fire at anything that may have been waiting for them. They both panned, seeking any oncoming threats, but the room was empty. Silence permeated the walls, but had any noise noise presentation it would find itself deafened by the heartbeat pounding in his throat. The officer was pulled from his musings by his partners coughing. 

“Ugh, yep. Definitely the right place. Come on, let's split up. There's nothing alive down here. Damn, must've gotten themselves locked in and starved or something…”

Her voice trailed off, eyes widening at something. He turned. There wasn’t much in the room, it was very utilitarian. The space they were in was bare of any photos, decorations, or personal effects. There was a kitchenette off to the side, but it was little more than a few cupboards and a mini fridge. It was sparse, and it was unnaturally clean, save for the spot that Bennett finally realized had captured Lark’s attention. On the other side of the room was a doorway to a second space, and stretched across the floor leading into that room was a river of blood. Lark was already at the threshold, peering into the second space.

“Shit, Bennett, you might want to call for backup….this it pretty fucked up.”

Lark disappeared into the room. Bennett was tempted to call her out for her language, she was still practically a kid, but he refrained. Instead he followed her lead, stepping carefully at to not disturb the spatter. There was a lot more of it now that he looked. The streaks across the floor were the most prominent, but there were streaks and spots across the wall as well. Whatever had happened here had clearly been brutal. 

The scene before him did nothing to quell those feelings.

Along the wall were two figures. The first was long and sharp, and may have been elegant were it not for the gaping hole in his chest. In death the figures pallor had turned grey, spotted with purple where his veins had solidified. The second leaned against the wall, slumped over the first. His hair (unkempt and bloodstained) covered his face. Lark leaned over the two figures, two fingers pressed under his jaw. After a moment, her eyes flew open.

“Holy shit Bennett call a bus, this one’s still alive!” 

“What?! Are you sure? He doesn’t look-”

“I’m on his freaking pulse right now, he’s weak but there, now come on radio it in!”

The officer fumbled with his radio for a moment, struggling with his thoughts. How long had he been down here? Was he the killer, or a bystander? Why had he not left this place? He clicked the call button on his receiver, then paused. Another figure flickered in the corner of his eye. Bennett turned to face their observer, but froze instead. 

There was no third observer in the room. There was a photograph, blown up nearly to life size. No, it wasn’t just one, the entire wall was covered in photographs, all of the same young man. Another look made him realize that these photographs were all of the same man lying half dead in this room. The officer took a breath and reached for his radio again.

Click. “This is Officers Lark and Bennett reporting from 49th and Birch, send a bus ASAP….and missing persons. They’re gonna want to see this.”

\-------- 

_Beep….Beep….Beep…._

That sound was the first thing his mind registered. Save for the steady electronic metronome, it was quiet. Too quiet. 

_Beep….Beep…._

Slowly, sensation returned to him. He was cold, but not uncomfortably so. Just enough that the temperature remained a constant in his thoughts. Ambient sounds made themselves apparent; a soft, deep rumble, a consistent sound like a gasp of air, footsteps. No, not footsteps, that wasn’t right. He was alone down here. Alone with a madman.

His body felt made of lead, heavy and still sinking further. What had happened? There was….there had been a fight. The broom. He had left the broom in the hallway, but then what? His fingers twitched, and he was met with a strange resistance under his skin. A needle? Why would there be…

_I would cut open your veins....drain you till you’re pale and dried, then fill you back up and bring you to life._

Jack’s eyes flew open. No, this couldn’t be happening, he couldn’t have lost. The beeping grew faster and faster as he panicked. He was struggling to move why couldn’t he move? Screaming for help wouldn’t do him any good, no one had heard before, but he tried anyways. No sound came from his throat though. A hand flailed up and found a tube. There was a tube running down his throat? No, this couldn’t be good, he had to get it out. He had to get out of here, before Pitch returned, before Pitch-

Hands came out of nowhere, holding his wrists down. Pitch was saying something, but it didn’t matter what, all that mattered was Jack had. To. Get. Out. He snarled and tried to pull away, but was too weak to succeed.

“-verland, please calm down. You’re at Burgess General, you’re safe. The tube is helping you breathe, you need to leave it in place. It’s alright, you’re in good hands. Just take a deep breath, that’s it, deep breaths, we’re here with you. You’re safe, Jack.”

Everything came back into focus too soon. The face looking down at him wasn’t emblazoned with harsh gold eyes, but grey, and gentle, and dead. Far too dead. It was a mockery of expression, someone trying to seem alive while truthfully floating through life with no reason, no purpose, no understanding of who they were. Her voice was soothing, calm, but he couldn’t look away from her eyes. She adopted the same tones used when approaching a cornered animal. It wasn’t much of a stretch, Jack had been a cornered animal for too long. The beeping slowed down with his breathing, eventually returning to the same rhythm as before. That’s right, the broom handle had broken. He had punched it through his jailer's heart, proof that it was there after all. As for the rest…

“Now that’s you’re awake, we’ll be better able to monitor you. Who knows, you might even be extubated by this evening. Right now though, we want you to get plenty of rest. The police have some questions for you, but we won’t let them in until you’re ready, okay?”

She smiled, and he nodded in response.

“Good. I’ll go check with the head nurse and see if you’re due for more pain meds. Be right back.”

The nurse vanished nearly as easily as she arrived. Now that Jack was alone, he could focus on collecting his thoughts again. That’s right. He had been down there for ages, his only company a broken corpse. How long it had been, he couldn’t say. The cabinets hadn’t been stocked recently, and once the food ran out and exhaustion set in everything began to blur. He had moved the body closer to the edge of the building, in hopes that the ventilation would bring the smell out sooner, but the cold winter meant Pitch’s corpse hadn’t begun to truly rot for some time.

Jack recoiled at the sudden memory. He had finally seen it, seen the spark the lunatic was so obsessed with. It wasn’t beautiful, it wasn’t exhilarating, and it certainly wasn’t some holy experience. It was crazed, and desperate, and painfully lonely. 

It was the closest thing to truth he had ever witnessed.

From the corner of his eye, Jack could see a mirror on the wall. It was a small thing, nestled over a sink and beside a cabinet which likely contained gloves, syringes, and other essentials. He hesitated to turn fully towards it; what would he see in his own eyes? Something worthy of looking at? A person who had somehow survived through hell? Or would he look as dead inside as the woman who had just left?

The boy paused for a moment, before making his decision. He turned away from the mirror. It wasn’t something he could face, not today.

He was asleep again long before the nurse returned.

\-------- 

“Are you sure they don’t look familiar? Look again.”

Jack cringed. They had been at this for nearly an hour, the missing persons officer showing him sheets of photographs, asking if he recognized any of them as fellow victims. The idea was almost laughable; fellow victims. He wasn’t like them, they may have suffered unspeakable evil but they hadn’t been fundamentally changed. They were gone, sure, but they at least died as themselves. If only he had been so lucky.

It had been two days since waking. Two days of trying to avoid mirrors, of making sure to only look at his doctor's mouths when they spoke, of trying not to hear the faint whisper of ‘can you see it yet?’ ringing in the back of his mind. That was half of why this was taking so long. Every time he looked at the faces for more than a few seconds he could practically feel Pitch’s fingernails stroking the back of his neck, the warmth of his breath as he exhaled in anticipation before approaching his next prey. 

“We can take a break if you need to.”

Jack blinked, and shook his head as though it would clear the unwanted thoughts from his mind. He hadn’t realized how long he had zoned out for. 

“Sorry, no it’s alright. I-I can keep going.”

He cringed internally at the break in his voice, but the officer made no mention of it. Jack was grateful for it. He turned his focus to the sheet before him, six neat little boxes each framing someone likely long gone. After a moment. He points to a man in his mid-30s in the upper left corner.

“I think this one was there, but it’s hard to tell. Like I said, they all sort of...blurred together after a while.”

The officer nodded, and pulled the sheet away. Jack wrapped his (too thin) arms around his knees. _Please let that have been the last one_ , he thought, but had no such luck. The officer instead reached into his file for another page.

“Don’t worry, this is the last one.”

_Thank god._

The sheet was set down on the hospital bedside. Five dead eyed gazes with false smiles looked up at him, passive and empty. The sixth should have appeared as decrepit as the others, in truth it still did. But he recognized her, could still see the echo of that spark in the ink.

“That one, Stacy. She was-she was the first one I…” He took a breath, trying to silence the thoughts swirling about his mind. Promises he would never be able to keep, blood on his hands, a young woman, so brave, dying far more calmly than anyone had the right to. “She was just the first. If any of these went missing before her, I won’t recognize them. He never followed a target for more than a week or two anyways.”

“You hadn’t mentioned that before.”

“It hadn’t come up. It lasted months, alright, you expect me to remember every last detail!?”

“There’s no need to get defensive abo-”

Jack was livid. “No need!? Are you fucking serious? People are dead, DEAD, and it’s my god damned fault! I don’t need you to remind me, to fucking tell me that I haven’t told you enough, and I DEFINITELY don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t get defensive over!”

The officer remained impassive as Jack stopped screaming. Everything was red, but the calm came just as suddenly as the rage. That outburst of heat was replaced with a sense of dread, like ice running down his spine. The investigator continued to stare him down, as if waiting for Jack to snap again.

“Are you quite done yet?”

Jack did snap, but not out of anger. Out of the sudden realization that he was staring this man right in the eyes. Eyes that were initially blank to match the rest of his face, but now were blank to match his lack of purpose, his knowledge of self, his _spark_ . He turned his head away, looking down and trying not to shake.

“Y-yeah. I-I want you to get out.”

“Alright. Some more officers might come by to question you later, but MP should be able to carry out the rest of our investigation without needing to bother you again.”

“Fine.”

He listened as the other man left the room, the door clicking behind him. All that remained was the echoing silence and the beeping of the machines.

Jack was just fine with that. All the better for not thinking.

\-------- 

He was drowning.

The water held him down. Cold, unfeeling, but not unkind. He was just so tired, and though the weight of the liquid filled his lungs, it still cradled his limbs in suspension. Everything hurt, as though he had been fighting this, but why? The depths were calling to him, so soothing. Maybe if he just closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift away…

Mercilessly strong hands gripped his shoulders, tearing him from the liquid retreat, from his would-be grave. Behind closed eyes he could sense rather than see the light, blinding and warm. Too warm. Oh god it was hot, it had to stop, he couldn’t take it much longer. His heart pounded within his chest, only it wasn’t his heart. There were hands resting on his chest, beating in time, forcing his blood to flow. He wanted to reach up, to feel what was happening but his arms were too numb, too leaden to listen. Delicate fingertips pushed his chin up, held his nose close, and lips made contact with his. Warm air forced its way through his throat, cutting through the icy fluid in his lungs. And again, and again. He lurched upwards, water forcing its way up his trachea, expelling itself through his mouth and nose. How water could burn coming back up was a mystery, but god did it burn. He coughed, lungs aching for breath, as cool hands rubbed circles over his chest. This wasn’t so bad, he supposed. He was tired, but he was safe, relaxed. It was as if the water had stripped all the unnecessary from his mind, leaving only contentment to lay upon the cool tile beneath him.

“Absolutely beautiful, Jackson. You’ve done so well, so well.”

Jack’s eyes flew open. There was no mistaking those dark, velvet tones. Pitch hovered over him, one knee on either side of his hips and hand resting over his shoulder, caging Jack like an animal. The hand that was stroking his chest moved to card its long fingers through his hair. He struggled not to shudder at the contact, but the man above him made no such effort.

“How-How’re you- You’re-”

Before he could say _you’re dead_ those lips claimed his again. His mouth was cold, and hungry, as if he could consume Jack’s very soul through the contact alone. Fingers clenched in his hair, Pitch’s nails very likely cutting into Jack’s scalp. Jack wanted to crawl away, to push back, to punch Him in the face as hard as humanly possible, but his limbs still wouldn’t listen. The numbness was no longer calming, it was suffocating, terrorizing, leaving him helpless before a man who had congratulated him for _dying_ . The hand left his hair, gently stroking his cheek instead. Pitch’s fingers felt wet; was it from blood, or was he crying? Jack couldn’t tell.

“So very beautiful.”

It was barely a whisper, but it rang in his ears like a scream. Jack couldn’t stop himself; his eyes met Pitch’s. They were practically glowing in the dark of the room. When had it gotten so dark? Something wet dripped onto his cheek. Was he crying? Jack's eyes widened in horror as he realized no, he wasn't. It was blood, running from his captor's eyes. Pitch’s hand moved from Jack’s cheek to his throat.

Now, pay attention.”

He squeezed.

Jack bolted up. He was dry, alone, lying in his bed in the hospital. A shaky breath wracked through his body, almost a laugh, almost a sob. _God, I’m not getting away that easily, am I?_ Long repressed memories from childhood came rushing back, of waking in the middle of the night from nightmares far tamer than this, wishing for a mom who was never coming back. That brought the sob back, yes, it was definitely a sob. He clenched at his hair, hoping the pain would keep him grounded. It wasn’t a foolproof method, but it helped him to grit his teeth long enough to get his breathing under control. 

He just wanted to go home.

\-------- 

Home, as it turned out, was not any better.

The first time he had walked through the door, Jack’s body had gone into panic mode, recalling the last time he had been here and a madman was waiting for him with a chloroform soaked rag. That had ended with the boy curled in a corner for nearly twenty minutes, trying to get his breathing under control. Fortunately, the panic attack had eventually passed, and jack had peeled himself from the laminate flooring, taken a couple more paxil that his nurses probably wouldn’t approve of, and moved on to check the state of the place.

Three days had passed since then. Three days of phone calls from old friends and co-workers, wishing him well and expressing condolences. He fucking hated it. All but one of the cards had gone in the trash, and the one that remained only stayed because in spite of it all, Jack couldn’t say no to the kids. Apparently the officer who had found him had a kid in his old class, and as soon as little Jaimie knew he was alive he pulled together the entire class to make him a ‘get well soon’ card. The entire thing was really kind of a mess, covered in glitter and too many stickers, and all the kids names were a bit scrambled on the inside. It was absolutely perfect. Jack just wished he had the nerve to face the kids again, but what if they looked as vacant as everyone else? They might not be, kids were bright, they were resilient. But it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take yet.

Jack knew it wasn’t fair to resent his old colleagues and well-wishers, that they all meant well, but he didn’t want their god damned sympathy, he wanted to pour the last few months out of his brain and start over. He had told the doctors as much and the best they could say was _‘you should probably discuss that with the shrink, once you see them’_ . Really? These people went to medical school for that? At least Dr. Aster was cool. A take-no-bullshit Australian who made sure to add extra pills to his scrip because he _knew_ Jack would probably take more? Ethically dubious, but awesome in his book.

Those extra drugs definitely had helped. Sure, they left him in a hollow daze most of the time, but it was better than thinking. Everything was better than thinking. Then again, not thinking was probably what led him to his laptop at 3 AM, fishing through google for any press releases from the investigation. If he couldn’t dump it from his brain, might as well desensitize himself to it, right?

Wrong, this was a terrible idea. He couldn’t look at the faces of the victims any longer, so he had somehow made his way to the public records for one Kozmotis Pitchiner.

Jack almost laughed at the name. Pitch suited him so much better. It was deliberate, to the point, blunt, not this pseudo-artistic clusterfuck of letters that hardly resembled a word. Aside from the recent discovery that he kept people in an underground room and slashed their throats open, his public record was empty. So, that meant google needed to pick up the slack. There was nothing noteworthy in his childhood, he graduated summa kum laude from his law school, was hired by a prestigious firm, nothing really stood out until- oh, that’s an interesting headline. _Icy Conditions Claim Another Victim; Local lawyer Loses Wife and Child in Collision_ . Against his better judgement, he clicked through the article. 

It was fourteen years ago, the storms had been pretty bad. A few small blizzards had moved through the area, icing the roads and leaving everyone nearly blind. Jack remembered it more clearly than he wished, it was the winter that his family fell apart, the winter when Emma-

_Stop it, don’t think about that now._

He shook his head and went back to reading. The crash had happened on a Sunday night, the family on their way home from a weekend trip. Every report had said the storms were over, and that it would be clear, but the winds changed and the front that had passed North essentially did a 180. The winds were strong, the rain froze on the road, and the vehicle slid straight into a tree. With the road conditions as bad as they were, it took emergency crews close to an hour to reach the scene. By the time they did, the wife and daughter were already dead. Emily Jane, she was only 7, younger than his own sister had been when-

And that was the end of that. Jack closed his laptop, finally realizing just how hard he had been breathing. He would bet just about anything that Pitch had watched them died. If there was anything human in him, he would have been horrified, but being Pitch, he would have been fascinated too. Jack needed to lie down, or maybe he needed to throw up, or maybe he needed more pills. No, wait, he was definitely going to throw up, pills were not a good idea. He barely made it to the sink before retching, and absentmindedly thought his hair really needed a cut. That worked, hair was good, something trivial to focus on while he tried to stop shaking. _My hair is too long, I should really try and get it cut, it’s brown, smells kind of weird, maybe I should take a shower_ , this counted as grounding, right? Maybe he would have to admit to the shrink that it kind of helped. But maybe he wouldn’t. He had until tomorrow to decide.

That’s all any of this really was, though. Waiting until tomorrow, putting off even the easy decisions until tomorrow, hoping to make it through one more day without a meltdown. Jack shook his head. It had been days since he’d gotten any proper rest. He needed to lie down. 3 in the morning wasn’t the time to be questioning what his existence would look like from here on out.

\-------- 

In the end, he had decided against admitting that the grounding helped. It didn’t make much of a difference, since it was pretty obvious that it was, but Jack wasn’t up for telling his psychiatrist that he had been googling the life story of his captor. Dr. North was an agreeable guy, and professional to a tee, but Jack wasn’t ready for any judgement he might face for not letting go of what happened, imagined or otherwise.

They had been meeting like this, once a week for about a month now. Their sessions for the most part were all the same; Jack would take one look at the mood assessment and write ‘the fuck do you think?’ on it,North would ask a few questions, Jack would answer in as few words as possible, they would discuss some grounding and relaxation techniques, and Jack would leave as soon as the hour was up without so much as glancing at the shrink’s face. Frankly, he wasn’t sure why he was still coming. Maybe it was nice to have some sense of routine again, or maybe he just liked that North never bothered saying _‘I understand how you feel’_ or _‘it’ll get better, just have faith’,_ or any of the rest of that bullshit. Who the hell actually thought any of those canned sentiments helped anyone? This guy clearly knew better. He listened and tried to help without pretending to understand, and that was the only thing that kept Jack coming back. That, and North insisting he do so until they get to the bottom of what triggers his panics, but Jack already knew the answer to that. It was eye contact.

North’s office was, fortunately, filled with plenty of things to look at besides the doctor himself. Right now, the bookshelves were decorated with little twinkling lights, remnants from the man’s allegedly somewhat overzealous christmas decorations. A small globe sat on a table by the couch he was currently reclining upon, marked with color coded pins, indicating the countries North had visited, and the ones he had yet to see. The rest of the office was adorned with figures, banners, and trinkets from those places. Despite the lack of cohesion, and the sheer abundance of stuff, the space never felt cluttered or messy. It felt open, warm, lived in. Were Jack in a mood for sentimentality, he would have likened it to a home. 

Jack was vaguely aware of the Doctor saying something from the background, his thick Russian accent drawing him from his musings. The content of the words however was completely lost on him.

“Sorry, what?”

North sighed. He didn’t sound exasperated though, he almost sounded sad.

“Jack, I am wvanting to help, but you are still afraid of-”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Ah, sorry, I misspoke, is not the word I wvas looking for. You are...hesitant. I know, you are wvanting help, but I am not knowing how to make you comfortable here. Wvat can I do?”

He turned to face the shrink, keeping his attention to the man’s (admittedly rather impressive) beard, rather than his face. Jack sighed, unsure of how to answer.

“Thanks Doc, but I’m not really sure there is anything you can do.”

A moment of silence passed between the two. North shuffled through a few papers, though what he was looking for, Jack didn’t really care.

“Perhaps there is something else wve can discuss, something you said to Officer Harper.”

“Who?”

“Investigator from missing persons.”

“Oh, that asshole.”

North shook his head. Yep, there was definitely some exasperation in there, not that Jack could blame him.

“Wvell, I did not speak with him for long, but he did leave an interesting note. He says you believe this to be your fault. Why wvould you think that?”

Jack blinked. He really hadn’t expected that to come up. He hardly remembered saying that. But, it sounded right…Jack leaned back to stare at the ceiling, hoping it would make the question go away. But, this would never work if he didn’t at least make an effort. He took a deep breath.

“He was…. he was trying to show me something….and I couldn’t see it. I just keep thinking, maybe if I had….maybe if I had caught on to what he was talking about sooner, he wouldn’t have killed so many of them.” His voice trailed off, but he could hear North nodding, contemplating what he had said.

“What wvas he trying to show you?” 

He couldn’t help but flinch. “I...I can’t really explain it. but it was like...he was trying to show people the truth, who they-who they really were. Don’t get me wrong, he was absolutely nuts! But maybe, it’s just that-I don’t really want to talkabouthisanymore.” 

North held his hands up, somewhere between a gesture of surrender and approaching a spooked animal. “Very well, wve will stop. But I wvant you to be honest with me Jack, do you truly believe he wvould have stopped if you could see whatever he imagined what there?”

_He didn’t imagine it_ , Jack very nearly said out loud. He only barely stopped himself, and wouldn’t that be a fun conversation to have with the shrink? _‘Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I don’t really think Pitch was crazy, because I saw it, right when I drove a broom handle through his chest. Haha, good times, am I right or what?_ . Yeah, that’s the road to a clean bill of health, absolutely. Wait, he was still waiting on an answer, wasn’t he?

“I...I don’t really know. Maybe? He was…..I don’t know, but maybe I….what if I could have stopped him?”

“Jack, it is hard to not think of such things, but what good does it do you? It will earn you nothing but enough grey hairs to rival myself. You are hurting yourself not for a future you fear, but for a future that will never happen. These things, they are outside of all our control. Blaming yourself? Is same as letting him win.”

_Maybe he already has,_ no, he had to stop that, he couldn’t afford to think that way. Jack turned towards North, careful to avoid his eyes. He almost laughed when he realized he didn’t even know what color they were. It’s amazing how you didn’t notice how often people talked about those sacs of aqueous fluid and nerves, didn’t notice how much people emoted with them, until you stopped looking at them. Still, the Doctor’s expression was starting to look like...it was getting a little too close to caring for Jack’s preferences. 

“So, uhm, is the hour up? What do ya know, close enough, kay seeyounextweek.”

He was out the door before the psychiatrist could say a word.

\-------- 

The room was imposing, to say the least. Large cavernous spaces, connected via elegant arched hallways to other, presumably equally cavernous spaces, high domed ceilings, and elegant crown molding everywhere. It could have been ostentatious, were it not all black. Frankly, the room should have been invisible given the amount of darkness, but a pale, almost sickly yellow light illuminated the space, though there was no indication as to where the light came from. Slowly, Jack tread up the stairs. There was no sign as to where they lead, they certainly didn’t lead straight. Around him were more staircases, leading sideways, across diagonals, even upside down. Between them hung series of chains from the ceilings, some swinging limply despite the still air, some adorned with oversized birdcages. This place should have been intimidating, should have set Jack’s teeth on edge, but the shadows playing across the walls and the footsteps echoing were somehow calming. He sat at the edge of the stairs, looking across the expanse. The footsteps came closer.

“You seem remarkably at ease, considering how deep you are within my domain.”

Jack looked behind him at the too tall figure half concealed in the shadows. He appeared much the same as he did in life, moving with a casual ease. A black sweater paired with black jeans served to blend him into his surroundings, like he was just another column adorning the room. Jack looked away, not for anxiety but because he was tired of turning his neck that far.

“Eh, it doesn't really feel like your space. This was never your style, it’s too,” he offered a vague gesture towards the expanse” you know.”

Pitch sat down beside him, leaning back on his hands to stare at the ceiling. Considering he was sitting next to the man who put a broken handle through his chest, Pitch was incredibly relaxed, surprisingly open in his body language. Then again, Jack was equally relaxed, and wasn’t that fucked up. The two sat like that, in comfortable silence, side by side. Moments may have passed, or maybe hours. Dreams were strange like that, time held little bearing within them. Eventually, that silence was broken.

“I never wanted to hurt any of them. It wasn’t my intention, you should know that.”

Jack turned to face the older man. He was still gazing at the dome above them, his expression resigned. This was all a figment of his imagination, but still…

“ I believe you. Hurting them wasn’t the point, you just wanted them to see.”

“If only it hadn’t taken you so long. We could have been great together, we could have shown the whole world the truth! But you-”

“Killed you? Yeah sorry to rain on your parade.” Jack scoffed. “Pitch, you’re crazy. You were right, but you were crazy. Even if I had seen it sooner, I never would have helped you.”

Pitch sat upright and moved to face the creator of this illusion. Jack inhaled sharply. Somehow, his mind was able to perfectly recreate the glow in his companion’s abnormally gold eyes as he died. How could the memory of a dead man be the only thing that still looked alive to him?

“Perhaps not yet, but, in time I feel I could have persuaded you.”

The man in black shifted closer to Jack, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. His lips were warm against the boy's temple, but Jack didn’t move to push him away. This part of the dream had become normal, expected even. Pitch’s lips moved to meet his own, and though Jack didn’t encourage the action, he didn’t move to stop it either. It was easier to just let go, stop thinking. He closed his eyes in acceptance, growing lax at the touch.

A touch which was interrupted by a sharp pain through his sternum.

Jack’s eyes flew open. Pitch had moved back just enough that his field of vision was completely consumed by the other’s face. The boy looked down to find a handle in Pitch’s hand, connected to a blade piercing through his own chest.

“I’m sorry Jackson, but the knife was just too good an idea to pass up.”

Watching the red ooze from his aorta, through Pitch’s fingers and down his arm, Jack couldn’t help but agree.

\-------- 

It’s an inevitability that all things, no matter how strenuous, become routine in time. Things that once caused pain become background noise, the horrors that once consumed us become passing thoughts. It doesn’t mean anything has gotten any better, life is never so kind. It just means it’s easier to fake it.

In the end, it’s all part of the same cycle, right? Drag yourself out of bed, drudge through as much of your routine as you can stomach, decide whether or not it’s worth leaving the house. It doesn’t really matter if you do or not. Outside, it’s full of people who don’t understand, who can’t understand. People you can’t even bring yourself to look at anymore, not without wondering what are you hiding, who are you really? Do you even know? They go about their lives, maybe mundane, maybe great, hell maybe even worse than what you’ve gone through, but you find that you just really don’t care. That’s the part that hurts the most, knowing you used to care and just...can’t. 

It’s not like staying in is so much better though. Trapped by your four walls and the walls of your mind, alone with your thoughts again. Sure, the therapist can help keep those thoughts from resurfacing, except no, he really can’t. He’s still around every corner. But in time, all things become routine. After a while, it’s not so bad. You know what to expect from him.

That’s life at this point. Wake up, pretend to take care of yourself, take the pills, see the shrink, hmm and hah at all the right points during the appointment, yes definitely, that’s a great idea. What’s that? You have some new breathing exercises you want me to try? Great, those will definitely help, thanks, really. Come home, maybe eat something, maybe don’t, take more pills and sleep. The nightmares almost become a welcome reprieve, at least they break up the monotony of it all. They’re not even that bad. Sure, they’re usually centered around your dying, but in those moments you’re most afraid because you suddenly feel so alive. After seeing so much death, that shouldn’t be a thought you consider, but maybe you’re just desensitized to it after all. Death has been a part of your life for so long, it’s more of an old friend than anything else.

For the first time in weeks, Jack stood bare before the mirror. Dark streaks circled the rim under his eyes, significant enough to make him look half a corpse. His eyes were sunken in, cheekbones definitely more prominent than they had been before. The boy before him had lost more weight than he could really afford to, his ribs as visible across sallow skin as the pale blue spiderwebs of his veins. He took a deep breath. This would all be over soon, it would all be worth it.

This is all you need, he told himself. A knife, a mirror, and a willing tool. He was willing, he was ready. God, he just needed to feel something again. A laugh tried to make it’s way up Jack’s throat, but he forced it down. He didn’t need it to remind him just how fucked up all of this was. A smile finally cracked across his face, but it was a twisted broken thing. Yeah, he could still back out of this, go on, pretend to be better, but was it worth it? Jack knew he couldn’t go back, he couldn’t unsee it. Every time he looked at his face, he knew the cold hard truth; he was already dead. He wasn’t going to get any better. So, if he was already gone, might as well make it worthwhile.

The blade had been cold against his throat, but as it warmed to match the skin of his neck his anxiety subsided. A slight trickle of red already ran towards his clavicle, steady, elegant even. If Jack closed his eyes, he could feel the presence of another body behind him, hand resting on his hip in a masquerade of an embrace. It watched, filling the space with a heavy air of anticipation, almost whispering now remember…

 

“I know. Pay. Attention.”


End file.
